


Lost Without a Cause

by Glintea



Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game), Dungeons & Dragons - All Media Types
Genre: Backstory, Blood Hunter, Gen, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-08
Updated: 2020-01-08
Packaged: 2021-02-19 03:26:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22171078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glintea/pseuds/Glintea
Summary: A man against all odds, a boy who wants to protect his land, and an abomination that shouldn't exist.





	Lost Without a Cause

> In a landscape tormented by all manner of beasts, devils, and abominations from beyond the veil, most live in fear of the dark, of superstition, and of the unknown. Some grow hardened by this experience, instead choosing to stand up and fight against the tide of shadow.
> 
> These folk are called ‘heroes.’
> 
> Some, however, are so fanatical and bent on destroying the anathema that plagues the countryside that they embrace dark, forbidden knowledge. They sacrifice some of their own vital force in dubious, forgotten blood rituals to better understand their enemies. Their methods sometimes blur the line between themselves and the evils they hunt, calling their own humanity into question.
> 
> These folk are called ‘Blood Hunters.’
> 
> -Blood Hunter Class Description

The clashing of blades reverberated through the small chamber that Jemare was in. He pushed against the cultist and tried to push him to the ground. Voices. From his back left. He narrowly ducked as a gleaming blade swung right over his scalp, clipping a couple hairs from his head. He slammed his shoulder into the man on his right, simultaneously digging his boot into another’s gut.

Jemare knew that he couldn’t fight these guys off for much longer. Where was Durand? He should have been here by now. But it didn’t matter, he was sworn to protect the town. The whispers around his briefly quieted as he took in a slow breath, his senses heightened as he listened for any sudden changes around him.

He angled his longsword and dragged the steel across his forearm, his skin splitting and spilling blood. His movements were mechanical, done dozens of times before. The crimson liquid was smeared across the blade, small sparks coming from where it touched. Sparks like a piece of flint striking steel. Then like a flash of black powder, his blade became engulfed in the flames.

“I will not fall here. I can’t. As long as I draw breath, you will not leave here alive.” He shifted the grip onto his sword, using both hands and holding it firmly in front of him. Two of the cultists brought necrotic energies to their palms and another drew a thin sword.

Jemare’s blazing blade effortlessly sliced through cloth, flesh, and bone alike. Though the lone swordsman laid against the wall, his side split wide open. He sat in a pool of his own blood, holding in what little remained. Though the slimy feeling against his palm told him that the damage done to his internals were horrendous.

But the cultists were far worse. A face frozen in fear laid several feet from the body it had been attached to just moments before. A horrible gash across a chest, the wound cauterized to not spill a drop of blood from the cultist. A severed hand inches away from a sword, the owner with a gaping hole through his gut, flesh around the wound bubbled and congealed in a way most only see in their nightmares.

But his work was done. Jemare had defended the little trade town from Bhaal extremists. Though the worship of a god of death? Extreme was an understatement. He’d have chuckled at his little joke if it didn’t hurt him to breath at all.

Footsteps from down the hallway alerted him to a new presence. Perhaps another foe to finish him off? It would be pointless. His eyes closed and his chest fell for the very last time.

Though the newcomer was not a cultist, not even a soldier. But a boy barely in his seventeenth year of life. He was holding a dagger covered in blood, eyes nervously darting around the room before settling on the man, “Jemare!”

He quickly strode inside, not wasting a moment to kneel beside the still figure, “Jemare..? I-i can get mom. She’ll patch you up, okay? Y-you’ve had worse… right?” After an all too painful silence, the dagger fell to the ground.

  
  


“He’s dead?”

“Yes… Here… here’s his sword. I know that it was given to him by you all. Figured that you might need it back? I don’t… I don’t know how this works.”

A robed fellow took the sword and inspected it closely, almost admiring it, or who had wielded it. He presented it to two others. One with a bowl, one with a fancy vial.

The vial was uncorked and poured over the blood-stained blade. All of the dried blood washed off quickly, smelling faintly of charred flesh.

“Durand Khassod. You were both trained by your father, yes?”

“Y-yes.”

“You have similar skills?”

“I-i would assume so.”

“Do you wish to protect the world as he did?”

“I want to help. I know he was always a bit bette-”

“Silence.” Durand bit his lip and kept quiet, “Drink this.” The fowl liquid tainted with his brother’s own blood. Would this make him better? Fill his shoes?

Gods the pain. Durand felt like his skull was being picked apart by barbed claws. His eyes burned, like his tears were of acid. His body ached. Had he fallen? Off of a horse it felt like. His whole body felt like needles were piercing it. A dozen per inch. Was he dying? Dead? Voices. All around him. How many voices? Just one with many. Right? Storming clouds that he almost saw a form in. Forbidden knowledge of the things beyond. This wasn’t for him. This wasn’t something mortals were meant to see. It hurt so much to even gaze upon a wisp of the clouds. He didn’t want to look at then. He couldn’t look away. His nostrils filled with the scent of blood. The familiar coppery taste filled his mouth. Blood. He… felt it. Not on his skin. He was blood.

A bolt of lightning crashed across the unseen sky right in front of him. Once. Twice. And a third time. He smelled ozone. He felt the searing pain. Did he get hit? Storms. Clouds.

Before the young boy was a writhing mass of flesh, tentacles, stormy clouds and blood. At least he thought that’s what it was. He felt sick. The… thing in front of him. It wasn’t real. It shouldn’t be real. How many gods had to be killed to make him stare at this horrible thing in front of him. Though he felt an almost familiar presence as it… looked at him?

**_“Rise.”_ **


End file.
